The year was 1801; a languid, fiery-gold October, with frosts looming, held sway over England. Thoughts of the approaching holidays and snow-covered roads had momentarily vanished from the minds of the residents of the small town of Coventry, for a new clergyman had arrived, filling every parlor with hushed gossip and lively speculation about the young man’s destiny.

Prominent, well-to-do families with annual incomes exceeding $\pounds$3,000 were indifferent to the new face in the clergy, yet families earning $\pounds$300 or less devoured—as greedily as cherry pie—every word spoken about the handsome new minister of the Lord’s house. Some said the new priest was like a London dandy—a Don Juan hiding a dark past and prying eyes beneath an unassuming cassock—while those fortunate enough to converse with the young man claimed he might have been a philosopher, had it not been for Divine Providence.

But. That subtle word "but" never prevents a story from taking an ambiguous turn or introducing the suspenseful uncertainty of the path ahead. And this "but"—As the old saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

This story begins with one of them.